


Freedom, In Moments

by days4daisy



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Brotp, I have not taken US History in 10 years and it shows, M/M, Shipping History, let us cure angst with porn, no one likes General Scott ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during "Pilot" - TURN 1x01. Ben is the lone survivor of the ambush by the Queen's Rangers. Caleb checks on him, as only Caleb can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom, In Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos on my first attempt at TURN fic. Happy to know I'm not the only one who ships these two like a sailor ^_^
> 
> Enjoy!

"So, the boys spoke true. We've got a war hero among us."

Ben sighs for show, but he is glad for the company. The briefing with General Scott has left him bitter, as has the cap of the Queen's Rangers resting on the table opposite his bedding. He sits up on his cot to greet Caleb, doing his best to mask his wince. Time and medical attention have numbed his shoulder’s pain considerably, but he can still feel the pull of broken skin beneath his bandages. The ache only reminds him of Robert Rogers, and the disastrous events of that day.

"No hero to be found here," Ben tells him. "Just the one who walked away from an ambush."

"I take it the chat with General Scott didn't tickle your fancy." Caleb stands above Ben with his trademark smile, but his eyes are focused on the bloody bandages. "It still open?"

"The wrapping makes it look worse than it is," Ben assures him. He moves to stand, but the pain flares in his shoulder, giving him pause. Caleb sets a hand on his good shoulder, urging him back down. Sore and tired, Ben swallows his pride and allows him.

Caleb sits beside him on the cot. "Look at you," Caleb says, evaluating his friend. "Strapping young buck with the war scars to match. The ladies of Long Island will be no match for you."

Ben cracks a smile, but his gaze sinks to the ground in front of his bed. "I was the only one left, Caleb. My whole dragoon… All of them-"

"You're not to blame for orders you didn’t give," Caleb tells him. "And what of our pal Scott? Did you tell him about our plans?"

"I tell him every time, Caleb. He’s dense as ever," Ben mutters. "How many of our men have to die on account of his Old World tactics? We _need_ the intelligence of the British. Everything is in place, if he would just... if he could just _trust me_ -"

"Easy, Tall Boy," Caleb cuts in, amusement lighting his face. "One wound is enough for an evening."

Ben chuckles, but the sound lacks humor. He looks down at his own fist closed tight over his stomach. A part of him wants to stay on his tangent. These fruitless verbal spars with General Scott have become intolerable, and he could use the opportunity to vent. But he is also exhausted. His anger drifts into a more comfortable silence.

In the quiet moment, Ben is only vaguely aware of Caleb standing up. He becomes conscious of his friend's actions only when the cap of the Queen's Rangers is thrust in front of his line of sight. 

Ben glances upward. The good humor has fled from Caleb's expression. "Rogers?" he asks. Ben nods. Caleb tosses the cap with disgust back to the table. "That fuckin' knob Scott marched you to that sadistic bastard?"

"Caleb..." Ben knows he should disapprove. But given his own thinning patience with the general, he can't bring himself to argue like he should.

Caleb is far from done. "These idiots, expecting the men to keep their morale! Amateurs playing with our lives like dolls-"

" _Caleb_." Ben was willing to overlook the anger towards Scott, but insulting the entire officer rank of the continental army is too much. "I'm one of those idiots you speak of, don't forget that."

"You're the biggest fool of all!" Caleb declares. A note of humor returns to his voice. "But you're pardoned for being a dolt, as my best friend and all."

"Your best friend is a fool, my best friend is an arse," Ben muses, smiling. "Quite the pair we are."

"We are indeed." Caleb crosses his arms. "Now, your shoulder. It hurts a good deal, does it?"

Ben's brow arches at the abrupt change of tone. The words are spoken gentler than Caleb Brewster has any business speaking.

"As much as you would expect," Ben replies dismissively. He isn't sure what Caleb is getting at, but he does not want to talk about a war wound, even in jest. The pain is inconsequential. His entire dragoon is dead. By all rights, he should be one more body on the ground. Just one more victim at the end of Robert Rogers’ gun.

"I bet it hurts more than that," Caleb says. Ben does not respond. He is too involved with his returning anger.

Half of the men lost that day were not men at all. Boys. Their lives should have been in front of them – full, free lives. They found freedom of another kind that day. But they would never know the one they sacrificed themselves for.

Sacrificed for what? A failed scouting mission? Proof of how laughably outmatched their strategies are against the British?

There was a time in days past when Ben himself would have been considered a boy. Not far removed from university, a young bachelor embarking on business and family. But those days are gone, replaced by a present where a man of his age can have the war mind and cunning to carry the rank of captain.

Ben's thoughts pause when Caleb's fingers trace his injured right shoulder. The touch is light, but it is still enough to make Ben cringe.

He pulls back instinctively, not just from the ache but the meaning he feels behind Caleb’s gesture. "Look," Ben says. "I'm grateful, Caleb. I am. But I'd rather you not-"

His words catch in his throat. Caleb's weight has rejoined him on the cot. Specifically, Caleb's knee. It has fit strategically between Ben’s legs, leaning into the seam of his trousers.

It takes Ben a moment of stunned fumbling to regain his voice. When it returns, it is uneven and panicked. "Are you mad?" he hisses, looking past Caleb's shoulder towards the sealed entrance to his sleeping quarters. "Anyone could-"

Caleb cuts off Ben's worry with his mouth. The gesture is rough and sudden, and it does not take Ben long to lose track of his concern. Even at his most dire moments, Caleb has a way of stealing his rational thoughts.

Trapped as Ben is, he valiantly holds still against Caleb's persistent knee. He clings to his earlier anger and fear of discovery. But ultimately, he is too tired to win. Caleb shifts against him, the nuzzle of his weight like a caress. Ben’s resolve wanes. His legs part wider, inviting more.

Ben realizes then that Caleb's hands are no longer idle. They are tracing the maze of bandages wound across his torso.

That Caleb is touching him is no surprise. Caleb's fingers are greedy in these secret moments. He loves to touch what he possesses, claiming skin like explorers marking uncharted terrain. But these touches are different than his usual ownership - sweeter, more fleeting.

Caleb's hands move softly across each fold of fabric, caressing the places where each bandage gives way to his body . They slide across the curve of his right shoulder and find his ribcage in the small triangle of open space between crossing cloth.

Desperately, Ben tries to regain some control. "Do you...like this, Brewster?" he prods.

"I hate it." The words, dark and cross, startle Ben from his brief composure. "I hate that damned Rogers. This damned war."

"Caleb..."

"I hate Scott, that pompous arse. And you...” Caleb pulls back and stares at him seriously. “Goddamn you, Tallmadge. Would it kill you to say life sucks once in awhile?"

Ben laughs out loud. He can’t help it. After everything they’ve seen, everything they’ve lived through, this is what Caleb says? 

“I wasn’t aware I treated life like a party, friend." Ben tries to temper his amusement when Caleb glares at him, but it doesn’t work.

Ben relaxes into the light moment. But with his lowered guard, he quickly realizes his mistake. When Ben was tense, he was able to ignore the pressure between his legs. Now, Ben is painfully aware of the warmth pressed against him. He fidgets. The movement does absolutely nothing to improve his predicament.

"This sucks," Caleb insists. If he is aware of Ben’s struggle, he does not let on. "Look at us, Ben. Out in these damn camps. Surrounded by this ugly lot. Is this freedom?"

Ben opens his mouth to speak, though whether to argue or agree he is not sure. Or, perhaps he means to ask Caleb to lean into him just a little more...

Caleb does not give Ben the chance to say anything. He continues, quieter this time. And closer. "I want a proper bed," he says. "And proper bedding. A warm fire. A shut door. Walls. Privacy. Me on top of you. That's what I want."

Ben swallows hard, but he can't hide the shudder that rocks through him. "We'll have that," he insists. His voice is less steady than he would prefer. "One day, Caleb."

"One day?" Caleb snorts. "If we make it out of this dreck? Be real, Ben. One day, if we survive this, we'll have families. Kids and stuff. Our time is short. And we've got to waste our days out here with this crowd, living on scraps. Keeping quiet. Hiding."

"Caleb," Ben says. His warning is unconvincing, breathy and distant.

" _If_ we survive this war." Caleb's eyes darken. "That bastard Scott. I'll kill him before he sends you to your death again."

The pressure between Ben's thighs becomes rougher. Ben gasps, unable to maintain his silence. His body responds immediately to Caleb's weight, shifting towards it eagerly.

"You'll do no such thing," Ben tells him. A few minutes ago, he would have thought the response unnecessary, fully convinced any statement on taking the general's life would be a shared joke. Now, however, he is not so sure. Not with the way Caleb is looking at him.

Sucking in a breath, Ben continues, forcing his words to hold steady. "I'm not a thing you protect, Brewster. I'm an officer in the continental army-"

"You are Benjamin Tallmadge of Setauket," Caleb retorts. Ben feels the words spoken against his lips. "I'll follow any order you throw at me, captain. Except this one. I’ll kill him, mark my words." The implications are dangerous.

Ben is in trouble. Never mind his own disdain for the general, he has just heard a threat against the life of an officer. He should be giving Caleb hell for it. But Ben can’t make himself focus on the consequences of Caleb’s sentiment. He can only feel Caleb's knee. Its pressure is unbearable.

His nerves are on edge. A minute more of this and he may leap out of his skin.

"You’ll follow any order, you say?" Ben reaches out with his good hand and yanks Caleb's tunic from his slacks. "My order is to stop stalling. Either get on with your intentions or get out of my tent."

Caleb's brows rise. A bemused smile creeps onto his lips.

"Command suits you, Tall Boy," he says. Then, he leans down and covers Ben's mouth with his own. Ben sighs gratefully, grabbing a full fist of Caleb's shirt with his left hand and pulling him closer.

At his urging, Caleb's weight falls heavier between his legs. Ben's thoughts fail him. Everything disintegrates into sensation alone - Caleb’s lips, Caleb’s breaths, Caleb’s shirt hanging loose against his stomach, Caleb's trousers needing to be undone.

Ben forgets his wound and reaches impatiently for Caleb's pants. His condition returns to him like a knife through the shoulder. He hisses a curse and turns his head from Caleb's, his injured arm pulled fast against his stomach.

"Easy, Ben," Caleb murmurs beside his ear. His voice carries a light chuckle. 

"I'm fine," Ben insists. He isn’t sure what bothers him more, Caleb’s amusement or his doting.

But his argumentative spirit doesn’t hold up against Caleb's hands on his slacks. Caleb makes quick work of them, and he shivers as he is freed from the tightness of the fabric. As much as Ben would like to take back some control, he finds himself rising into Caleb's fingers.

He tips his head back permissively to let Caleb kiss down his neck. Caleb's tongue slides up a curve of his throat. Ben breathes hotly against Caleb’s hair. 

Caleb does not stop there. His mouth continues its exploration down to his shoulder. The uninjured side, his left, is an expanse of skin. Caleb tastes the line of his collar, dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat. Ben sucks in a breath.

Caleb continues his voyage along the bandages over his chest. Down the skin peeking in slim slits between fabric. "Caleb, I'm fine," Ben tries again, but his voice is quieter than before. He runs his left hand into Caleb’s hair, grabbing loosely at the short strands. 

"Shut it, Tallmadge," Caleb says. His voice is muffled against Ben’s stomach. "I'm busy."

He takes his sweet time at Ben's midsection. The fabric ends enticingly at the bottom of his ribcage. Caleb kisses there, making Ben twitch, and grazes the area with his teeth. Ever thoughtful, he licks the pink marks he leaves behind.

Ben chuckles, his hand wandering down to cup the back of Caleb's neck. "You’re busy… I can see that." His eyes shine curiously as Caleb sinks further down, on his knees before him. "Caleb...?"

"Are you still talking?" Caleb asks. He arches an amused brow. "Need to fix that, don't I?"

"Caleb, I thought we were going to... Caleb..." He makes a soft, surprised sound when Caleb wraps a hand around the base of his erection. Caleb licks his lips, and Ben finally gets where this is going. "Are you sure-"

Caleb is sure. He drags his tongue over the tip of Ben’s cock, prodding at the slit. Ben stops talking immediately, his stare fastened on Caleb's mouth.

"Hm." Caleb laughs warmly. "I like you better mute, Benny Boy."

Ben opens his mouth to retort, but he groans instead. Caleb's mouth has wrapped around the head of his cock. He keeps his eyes on Ben, gaze darkening as a flush spreads over Ben's face. Ben's lips part, but he says nothing.

Encouraged by his friend's silence, Caleb lets his his attention fix to the task in hand. Or, rather, in mouth. He sucks down more of Ben's length, his tongue running along the underside.

Ben bites his lip and tilts his head back searchingly. He tries to focus on the pattern of the tent stitching above his head. The hum of the men bantering outside. Anything to keep himself quiet. His good hand balls more firmly in Caleb's hair.

Caleb grunts around him when he feels the twinge from his scalp. He eases back on Ben briefly, suckling on the tip of his cock. Then, Caleb angles his chin and swallows him down again. More of him this time. One hand squeezes the base of Ben’s erection. His other hand goes to Ben's waist, pulling him up into his mouth.

Ben doesn't exactly need the encouragement. He lifts his hips, exhale shuddering. His eyes scan the tent roof more desperately, needing to lock on something. He has to stay focused on this moment and the crowd outdoors. His body is desperate to betray them, he has to remember where he is. 

Caleb tears away from him abruptly, and Ben grits his teeth against the protest that springs up his throat. "Look at me," Caleb demands. His voice is rough from the work.

"Do you want a court martial?" Ben forces out when he finally trusts himself to speak. "Firing squad? That what you're aiming for, Brewster?"

He gasps, pain and want together, when Caleb reaches out faster than he can react, hooking a hand around his braid. Caleb pulls, forcing his face down, and kisses him. Ben’s shoulder barks in protest. He tastes what must be himself on Caleb's lips.

"Right now, I want you looking at me," Caleb mutters against him. "And I want you comin' in my mouth before the boys miss my company. Got it?"

Ben instinctively leans to follow Caleb's lips as they retreat. But he catches himself before his need becomes embarrassingly obvious.

Caleb sinks back down between Ben's knees, and he settles fingers in Caleb's hair again. "Best get to it then," Ben says, daring him with a smile.

"You're an arse of a reverand's son, Tallmadge," Caleb says, admiringly. He is more than happy to follow the order though, wrapping his hand around the base of Ben’s cock again. Caleb swallows him down until his mouth meets his own fingers. Caleb bobs his head, his tongue wandering over him greedily. 

Ben's eyes start to roll back as his pulse jumps, but he blinks himself back to the moment. It takes all of his effort to keep his focus on Caleb. Caleb watches him with sharp eyes, drinking in his every change in expression. Ben struggles against the raw tension coiling through his nerves. But he succeeds. He stays with Caleb, gaze on gaze.

That is, until Caleb drops the hand from his shaft. He tilts his face. And somehow, his jaw drops further.

Suddenly, Caleb’s mouth is all the way down on him. His beard scratches between Ben’s thighs, against his balls.

Ben stares with awe. His teeth catch his lip so hard that he nearly draws blood.

Caleb's head works more intently. His tongue slides flat along the underside as he sucks him. Ben turns his face towards his good shoulder, trying to muffle his weak moan.

The decorum disappears from the fingers in Caleb's hair. Ben yanks on the short strands insistently, as if grabbing hold will help him maintain his composure. His stomach is tense, muscles trembling.

Ben's eyes start to close, but he catches himself and forces them blearily open. "Caleb," he whispers urgently. He fully expects Caleb to understand and leave him to take care of the rest. They both know how this works, how it has always worked.

But Caleb does not get off of him. Maybe Ben hasn't been heard.

Or, worse, maybe he has.

It seems impossible, but Caleb increases his pace. Goes down on him harder, somehow. Ben is so far enveloped that he can feel Caleb’s nose bump against his abdomen.

Ben rips his hand from Caleb's hair and bites down on the wrist. It's all he can do to cut off his cry when he finishes. Ben's eyes squeeze shut as his waist spasms. Caleb keeps his mouth present, draining him. It is a foreign, blissful feeling. Ben’s thoughts fog over.

It takes a few minutes for Ben to return to himself. Slowly, his gaze settles on Caleb’s. Ben’s look is unguarded affection, near reverent. 

Obviously pleased with himself, Caleb props his elbows on Ben’s thighs. “You don’t taste half-bad, Tallmadge,” he says.

Ben is still in recovery, but he is steady enough to push Caleb’s arms off of him and sit up straighter. “Come on,” Ben says. He starts to stand, pausing only when he feels a twinge from his shoulder. The ache makes him wince, but he turns his head to mask it. "Sit down," Ben continues, patting the cot with his good hand. "Your turn-"

"Relax, captain," Caleb says, giving him a gentle push back down. "This one's on me."

Ben tilts his head, confused. "But..."

"You'll get the next round, yeah?" Caleb stares at him pointedly, daring him to keep talking.

A look would normally not be enough to defeat the pride of Benjamin Tallmadge. But on this night, he can’t bring himself to argue. Ben sinks back down and nods. Victorious, Caleb stands just long enough to plop down next to Ben on the cot.

Ben glances at him, still perplexed. But he just says, “Thank you.” He tucks himself gently back into his trousers. Caleb smiles, looking as if he wants to gloat but thinking better of it.

After a pause, Ben looks over at Caleb again. "I, um...don't know if I can... Like _that_ , I mean." He clears his throat. "I'll try, of course. I don't mean I won't try."

Caleb smirks and pats his leg. "Don't worry, Tall Boy. You're a Yale man. I've no doubt you'll learn quick."

*Fin*


End file.
